“Come in.” Whiteman’s voice was smooth and sonorous. He probably practiced. Bob ran his hand over his hair out of habit, even though he’d cut it short. He moved his neck around, adjusted his tie, and went inside.
“Good morning, Mr. President.” Bob said, careful with his tone. Too obsequious and Whiteman would suspect his motives. Too casual and he’d be branded an upstart. But then again, in this hierarchy anybody whose bones didn’t creak when he changed chairs was an upstart. A little new blood was what this group needed, he thought, and not for the first time. A few well-placed funerals.
“Sit down, Bob.”
Bob settled himself on the chair, set his leather portfolio on his knees, and waited. He aimed his face forward, composed it into a solemn expression.
Whiteman leaned over and opened the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk—the trouble drawer. He took out a manila file folder and set it on his desk, then started drumming his fingers across it. Bob read the tab—he’d gotten really good at reading upside down. John Knox—Elder Correspondence.
“I received another letter this morning from the elders of the Alexandria church,” Whiteman said. “Their pastor was a classmate of yours.”
“Alasdair MacPherson,” Bob supplied. “The latest in a long line of MacPhersons to pastor that particular church,” he put in, just to show he was paying attention. “I called him again, as you requested, and this time I was able to speak to him.”
“And?”
Bob shook his head. “He still didn’t seem to be amenable to meeting with you, sir.”
Whiteman’s jaw flexed. He nodded and picked up the piece of stationery. Bob was careful not to reach for it until Whiteman extended it. Bob scanned its contents. Same old song.
Dear President Whiteman,
It is with great regret that we feel the need to contact you again.
Sure it is, Bob thought. These types weren’t happy unless they were stirring things up. He remembered his own miserable childhood as a pastor’s son. His father was always too busy for his family, but no matter how hard he worked, the church people were never happy.
The situation about which we sought your counsel has not improved. Indeed, when we met with our pastor as you suggested, he absolutely refused to comply with our requests, which we felt were quite reasonable. The situation leaves us with few appealing options.
We could, of course, proceed with the dissolution of the ministerial relationship by calling a congregational meeting to ask for Reverend MacPherson’s resignation, and then petition the presbytery to enforce it. However, as we stated in our previous letter, we fear such an approach might cause disruption to vital ministries as well as possible harm to his reputation.
Bob made the translation. If they put it to a vote, the church would divide up and giving would go even further down the toilet. A situation to be avoided at all costs.
However, should you see fit to encourage Reverend MacPherson to take an administrative assignment, we feel the Lord’s work could be carried on without hindrance.
The Lord’s work. Yeah. Everybody’s top priority. Bob set down the letter.
“Well, what do you think?” Whiteman’s silver hair was smoothed back, and his thick gray brows were drawn together. Bob wondered if Whiteman combed and sprayed them. He wouldn’t put it past him.
“Interesting,” Bob said, not committing himself until he saw which way the wind was blowing. There was a right answer here, and he was determined to find it. “As I said, Reverend MacPherson didn’t seem eager to talk.” At least to me, he added to himself, knowing that Alasdair had never particularly cared for him. And he knew why.
MacPherson was one of those unbendable types. He had a straightjacket morality that was painful even to witness. In fact, Bob remembered with just a small remnant of emotion, he held MacPherson responsible for his own less than stellar grade in Hermeneutics.
“I’m not asking you to give me the answers,” he’d pleaded after Alasdair had gotten an A from the course. “Just tell me the questions that were on the final. That’s not cheating,” he’d pointed out. “You’re just … uh … directing my studies.”
But Alasdair had shaken his head and said something Bob thought of as vintage MacPherson. “It wouldn’t be fitting,” or something like that. So Bob had plodded along and barely passed, grieving his father once again. Not that it had mattered in the long run. He’d dropped out of seminary and transferred to the state school. Took journalism for a while and seemed to have a talent for nosing out a story, then switched to public relations when his dad had scratched up this job for him. Of course, being the denomination’s PR hack didn’t exactly put him on the Pulitzer track. The most exciting thing he wrote was the monthly newsletter, but one of these days he’d break out. His novel was halfway finished.
“I am disturbed by the situation,” Whiteman intoned, bringing Bob’s attention back to the present. “Ordinarily this matter should be dealt with by the congregation and the presbytery. However, they do have a point. Since Reverend MacPherson has a national ministry, the good name of the entire denomination is at stake, which is why I’ve called you in.”
Bob nodded seriously.
“I’m also concerned about MacPherson,” Whiteman continued. “Now that I’ve become aware of his struggles, I feel I can’t simply turn my back on the situation. After careful consideration, I think the Knox ruling elders could be right. Perhaps a change of duties might be spiritually revitalizing for him.”
Bob nodded, his mind racing, trying to orient himself. What does Gerry want? he asked himself. That was easy. Right now Gerry wanted to get appointed to a second term as president. And what did he need to get that? Also easy. He needed the endorsement of the members of the General Assembly Council. Everyone knew the vote by the whole assembly at the annual meeting was a rubber stamp. The herd voted yes to whoever the council recommended, and they’d be deciding who would get the nod in the next few months. He tried to connect those dots to the present situation. How did the MacPherson mess fit into all of that?
He reviewed the facts. John Knox Presbyterian was one of the oldest churches on the East Coast, and right now they weren’t happy campers. For the last few quarters the big donors had aimed their contributions toward the denomination’s general fund instead of to their local congregation. There were important and influential men in that church. One was actually on the General Assembly Council, and the others had connections. If Gerry made their problem go away, they might be inclined to throw him their support. And if Gerry was reappointed, Bob would keep his job for another four years.
“I’d like you to look through the vacant posts here at headquarters,” Whiteman continued. “Find something suitable to offer MacPherson. Perhaps if we had a specific position, he’d take the offer more seriously.”
“I’ll get right on it, sir.” Bob started to stand, then hesitated. Things could get ugly. MacPherson was no pushover. If he wouldn’t even meet with Gerry, what made Whiteman think he’d give up his church at his suggestion, shuffle off to the mailroom, or whatever, just because it would be more convenient for everyone concerned?
“Something’s troubling you, Bob?”
He had to be careful here. “Sometimes those with the deepest problems are the least likely to see their true situation,” he offered.
Whiteman nodded.
“Denial can run deep.”
Whiteman sighed and gave a small shake of his head. “I wish we could somehow convince him that it would be in his best interest to cooperate. I can understand his reluctance to leave, though,” Whiteman mused. “The Alexandria church is a sophisticated, well-educated congregation, located in a metropolitan area. With congregational and elder support, there would be no financial problems. I’m almost tempted to take it myself,” he said with a little laugh.
Bob nodded solemnly, not letting his excitement show on his face. The future had just fanned itself out for him like a handful of aces and kings. He saw Alasdair taking some
administrative position, the Alexandria movers and shakers aiming votes in Gerry’s direction out of gratitude. And after that, whichever way things went led to a happy ending. If Whiteman got the presidency, no problem. If he didn’t, he could assume the Alexandria throne, an option Bob would point out to him at the right time.
“Perhaps I should go to Alexandria and speak to MacPherson in person,” Bob offered.
Whiteman nodded slowly, gave a half shrug. “Perhaps.”
Bob kept quiet. He knew there was more coming. Gerry kept thinking and steepling.
“Let’s prepare thoroughly,” he finally said. “I’d like to try to resolve this with as little disturbance as possible, and it would help if we knew more about the situation before we plunged in. Angels fearing to tread, and such. We really should corroborate the church’s complaints rather than rely on gossip,” he said.
Bob could have burst into song. “We certainly should,” he agreed. “I’ll do some investigating before I call on him.”
Whiteman nodded. “I’ll phone the elders and tell them to postpone any action for the time being.”
Bob handed the letter back to Whiteman and said his good-byes, satisfied as a cat. His feet slid noiselessly on the carpeted hallway as he exited. He hit the button for the elevator and bounced on the balls of his feet. He was going to go to Alexandria and come back with a signed resignation in his hand. Problem solved. He just needed to dig up some dirt on MacPherson. A stick to run him off with.
His general belief was that everyone had a naughty secret or two, but if he had to come up with a possible exception, it would have been Alasdair MacPherson. But then, he told himself, the dirt didn’t have to be on MacPherson himself. This kind of operation was like lobbing grenades. Anything that landed close would cause some damage, and he didn’t have to prove anything in a court of law, just get him to sign on the dotted line.
He reviewed what he knew about MacPherson and family. There were the sisters. He remembered them well. One was pretty and smart, one was a battle-axe, one was a chubby, mousy little thing who wouldn’t say boo if you stepped on her. Probably nothing there, but he’d ask around. There was the dead wife. He wouldn’t be able to get his hands on any medical records, but he could get the death certificate and request a copy of the accident report. Maybe there’d been a six-pack on the seat beside her. He could only hope. The babies were a bust, but the older kid definitely had possibilities.
He smoothed his tie, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at the shiny metal doors, feeling the excitement he always felt when he was on the trail of a story. He would give it his best try. Turn over a few rocks and see what skittered out.
Eight
Bridie merged into the thin crowd of Thanksgiving worshipers. Everyone must be at home cooking their turkeys. There was a bottleneck at the door of the sanctuary where an old man was handing out bulletins and personally directing each person to their seat. She waited patiently and looked up to find herself in front of the bulletin board that had started all this trouble. There was the baby bird. There was the promise that God took notice when it plummeted to the ground. She felt her mouth tighten and turn down at the corners.
A nice thought, but evidence in her life seemed to be piling up to the contrary. She thought of the empty spot her mother had left, remembered the way the family had come unstrung. It was more than remembering. She saw it again on some Technicolor wide screen of her mind: Mama’s illness and death, then Papa starting up with the drinking, followed quickly by overdue bills, empty cupboards, and eventually tirades and violence. Finally she saw the state welfare workers as they loaded Jimmy, Bethie, and Christy into the white van with the seal of the Commonwealth of Virginia stamped on the side, only leaving her behind because she’d just turned eighteen. They’d trundled them off to a receiving home, not even answering her desperate protests that she could take care of them, that she’d been doing it for the last two years.
She remembered again the hearings, the relatives who acted as though they were doing her family a favor to split up their children and parcel them out. She had done her best to convince the judge that she was responsible enough to care for them. She’d rattled off the homemaking skills she’d honed since Mama had died—doing the laundry, cooking, cleaning, shopping, making sure they all got to school with paper and pencils, lunches, and warm clothes, nursing them when they were sick, making Christmases and birthdays out of nothing. She could keep on taking care of them; in fact, she could do it better now that she didn’t need to be afraid of Papa.
Grandma had pleaded for the children as well. “Let me have them,” she’d begged. “Don’t take them away from here. It’s the only home they know.” But the judge had decided she was too old and her health too poor. “Why haven’t you taken them before now?” he’d demanded, and Bridie had driven the last nail into her coffin when she’d admitted that she’d hidden the truth from her grandmother. She’d felt she could bear Papa’s meanness as long as he kept it away from the younger ones. And somehow she’d known this very thing would happen if anyone knew the truth about their family’s state. They would stop being a family. And that’s just what had happened.
The judge had decided that a fresh start was what the two younger girls needed. A fresh start in South Carolina with private schools and tennis lessons. Bridie felt a familiar surge of bitterness and wondered bleakly how her sisters were doing with Aunt Brenda for a mother. She wondered where Jimmy had landed after he’d turned eighteen and left Uncle Roy’s. She closed her eyes and willed the thoughts away. They were too hard to bear.
She opened them and looked at the bulletin board again, this time bitterness hitting her with a hard little thump as she read the promise of the Father’s care. It was a lie. There were some people God watched over and some He didn’t. Some were on their own. He wasn’t watching over the likes of her, and that was just as well, considering some of the things she’d done. Maybe He cared more for sparrows than people. Especially people like her.
“Excuse me.” Someone jostled her elbow, and she realized she had stopped still, her body frozen with her thoughts. She caught up to the others, entered the sanctuary, and sat down in a back pew. After a minute she felt herself settle down. This church, her familiar place, had a calming influence on her rough-edged thoughts. She ran her gaze over the warm red carpet, the shimmering windows, the globes of the hurricane lamps on the sills. The altar was banked with red and gold chrysanthemums twined with ivy this morning, and the organ was playing something pretty. She tried to remember the last time she’d been to church on Thanksgiving. The last time she’d been to church at all.
She closed her eyes and could almost see Grandma, Mama, herself, and her brother and sisters in a squeaky-clean and pressed row. Papa had never come to church, but the rest of them had gone every Sunday, at least until Mama got sick. To church and to Grandma’s afterward for dinner. She could almost see her mother’s pretty golden hair and smiling face as she helped Grandma set the table, could almost hear Grandma singing.
She opened her eyes and made herself look hard around her. She wasn’t back home. She was here, and it did no good to dwell on what was gone. What wasn’t coming back. She focused her attention back on the service. The minister was rising and walking to the pulpit.
She frowned and took a closer look. Well, for mercy’s sake. She looked down at her bulletin, and sure enough, there on the inside page was the pastor’s name: Alasdair MacPherson. She gave her head a little shake and kept staring as he took his place behind the podium. Yes, it was him all right, in the flesh this time instead of a darkened image on an expired driver’s license. There was the disappointed dash of a mouth, the same hawk nose, the same combed-back hair. The same severe look, as if he was displeased, as if they had all let him down somehow. He grasped the sides of the pulpit and began to pray.
“Lord God, how wonderful your care for us, how boundless your merciful love. On this day of Thanksgiving we thank you for your most gracious gift. T
o ransom a slave, you gave away your son.” His mouth was moving, but his face stayed stiff and hard. And his voice, low and even, didn’t quite match up with the words he was speaking, which seemed like they should have been shouted if you really believed them.
Bridie tried to pay attention during the sermon, which was something about people having an obligation to be thankful and not waiting until they felt happy about their circumstances. The congregation sat listening, their faces looking set and determined, like they were taking a beating. When the service was over, she saw different emotions flicker across them. Some looked relieved, others disappointed, still others angry. She supposed she could understand why. His words had felt heavy and burdensome, and everything, especially faith, seemed more complicated and confusing after he’d spoken.
She followed the crowd out, then escaped to the ladies’ lounge, fiddled around for fifteen minutes or so until she couldn’t put it off any longer, then squared her shoulders, stepped outside, and took aim for the parsonage.
It was a red-brick house, like nearly every other house in the city of Alexandria, but set farther back on the street than the other homes on the block. It was surrounded by a boxwood hedge, but not the glossy green, pungently fragrant boxwoods she was used to back home. These were spindly, old, dying things, needing to be put out of their misery. And trees were nice, she thought, stepping over clumps of rotted leaves on the walkway, but there was such a thing as too many. She wondered if any light got through those windows when the trees were in full leaf. The closer she got to the house, the more she got the feeling that it was bearing down on her.
She was being silly. She adjusted her purse, careful not to knock over the scrawny-looking potted pine next to her on the porch, then stepped up to the black door, not about to be cowed by a pile of wood and bricks.
What exactly are you doing here? she asked herself, nonetheless. Saving some child when you can’t even save yourself? And from what? Nothing, that’s what.
Not a Sparrow Falls Page 10
